Devi's Paradise by Roxane Beaufort Page B

glass.
    ‘Drink,’ he said, and she was too frightened to refuse.
    It was burgundy with a slightly bitter under-taste, and she wondered briefly if he was drugging her. She had heard of cases where a girl lost her virtue under the influence of wine mixed with laudanum. She wanted to place it on the table, but Armand was watching her steadily and she drained it to the last drop. There was something in his eyes that made her wonder if she might have fared better with Awan. This man was strange, whereas the native’s needs had been simple. She began to realise that Armand was complicated, maybe a little insane. It wasn’t a comfortable thought.
    Good food and alcohol were making the other captives relax. So far they had been treated well, provided with necessities and unharmed, but Romilly found it hard to believe that there wasn’t a hidden agenda. Course followed course, and had this been a normal supper party the ladies would have retired to the solar, leaving the men to their brandy, pipes and risqué talk, but here there were no such rules. The trio played on and Romilly recognised some of the pieces that she had often heard at concerts or the opera house. It was very odd indeed, to hear this music in a pirate’s lair.
    ‘You like it?’ Armand asked, and though he hadn’t moved she felt as if he’d come closer.
    ‘I do,’ she replied. ‘This is a piece from Monteverdi’s L’Orfeo .’
    ‘You have seen the work on stage?’
    ‘Oh yes,’ she replied. ‘And you?’
    ‘Before I left Paris,’ he said, and there was an intriguing tinge of regret in his voice. She wanted him to say more, but his mood changed mercurially and he issued a command to Johnson. At once the musicians were hustled from the stage and their places taken by two strapping white women, one blonde, one brunette.
    They were big built, their skin contrasting with the leather straps that drew attention to their large breasts and organ-stop nipples. The tiny thongs they wore were open-crotched, blatantly showing their denuded pudendum, large clits and anal holes. They strutted and flaunted in high-heeled boots, goddesses and proud of it, demanding adulation.
    Johnson officiated, slapping each of them on the naked backside and announcing, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Mad Meg and Milly the Bruiser. These are both champion wrestlers chosen to visit our island from Tortuga. Those who wish can place their wagers now.’
    ‘If only I had cash!’ groaned Jamie.
    ‘Me too,’ agreed George, another compulsive gambler addicted to the sport.
    ‘A loan could be arranged,’ said Armand coolly. ‘At a high percentage, of course.’
    ‘Naturally,’ both men agreed, forgetting their hazardous position as gambling fever took over.
    Armand nodded towards the dark-clad, sober-looking person across the table. ‘Arrange it, Henry. Anyone else?’ and he looked directly at Joshua, but he shook his head. Romilly feared for her betrothed and his friend, but they were blind to everything but the thrill of placing a bet.
    Mad Meg and Milly the Bruiser were professionals to their fingertips. They prowled the stage like lionesses, despising those who were willing to risk all. Romilly had the gut feeling that they distained the male species anyway, much more amenable towards Sabrina who went up and spoke to them, exchanging caresses. This action inspired the men even more and they roared their excitement. All save Armand, who sat motionless, a cynical smile playing around his lips. Mad Meg looked at him deliberately, then laughed and fingered her vulva, wetting it with her dew and sniffing and licking it, while Milly held a wooden staff between her legs, gripped it with her muscular thighs, and rubbed her slit against it. His expression did not change.
    At a signal the wrestlers launched themselves and fell to the floor, folding their long legs round each other, straining and heaving, grabbing at breasts and cunts, giving a display of lesbian arousal that